


Observation, Hypothesis, Prediction, Experiment

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, endgame Holmes/Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to Brittany helps Holmes to see past Watson's literary persona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observation, Hypothesis, Prediction, Experiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mainecoon76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/gifts).



> Many thanks to Mr Garonne for beta-reading.

.. .. ..

I disembarked from the cross-Channel ferry in Portsmouth, very much aware of the fact that every stop brought me closer to home, and closer to Watson. I could not quite decide, however, whether the thought filled me with impatience or apprehension.

I found a quiet corner in which to stand while I waited for the boat train to London, and let the crowd mill around me. Their observation afforded me a meagre distraction. The chartered surveyor a few feet away was impatient to be reunited with his wife and infant daughter, while the civil servant next to him worried about losing the important documents he carried in his briefcase. An unemployed typist stood with her hands twisted in a nervous knot around the handle of her carpetbag, dreading the interview for which she was travelling to London. Such deductions were trifles, completely insufficient to distract me from what François Le Villard had said to me about Dr Watson.

A foolish but irrepressible part of me wondered whether Watson was thinking of me even now, and whether he was looking forward to my return. 

"I do hope you'll have a productive stay, my dear Holmes," he had said before I left for the Continent a week earlier. He said something along those lines every time he knew I was going to see Le Villard. I had never been able to discern whether he was talking about my professional collaboration with the French detective, or whether he had some inkling of the true nature of our relationship.

"Our rooms will seem quite empty without you," Watson had added, watching me make a few last-minute additions to my luggage.

I had looked up sharply, thinking I detected a peculiar note in his voice. His expression was serene, however, and he was busy shaking a cigarette out of his case. He glanced out the window, and added something banal about the weather being excellent for a smooth crossing to France.

I was sailing from Portsmouth to Saint-Malo that afternoon, and Le Villard had written to say he would be waiting for me with the carriage on the other side.

François Le Villard and I have sustained a mutually satisfactory relationship over the past four or five years. He translates my trifling works into French and writes me enthusiastic letters; I allow him into my bed. It would be insulting to both of us to suggest that the latter is a consequence of the former. If I am honest, though, there is probably some truth in the statement.

If I began the physical side of the liaison about the same time I met John Watson and realised that I was not strong enough to sustain my decade-long resolution to eschew all temptations of the flesh -- well, that is neither here nor there.

I generally manage to make some time to see Le Villard when I am on the Continent on business. One must almost always pass through Paris en route to London, of course, and Le Villard occupies a senior position there, in the Sûreté. Sometimes I have gone so far as to make the trip expressly to see him, as this most recent time. 

The London train drew into the station just then, and interrupted my thoughts. The crowd began to move. I boarded the train, and found my carriage: one step closer to Watson. 

I wondered what he had been doing to amuse himself while I was away. He has come a long way from the ill, friendless invalid who first moved in with me. In the five years we have roomed together, he has developed quite a network of friends and acquaintances in the city.

I have spent those five years devoting a large portion of my time to observing him. I have followed from a distance his different dalliances over the years, and drawn my own conclusions. When he returns to our rooms after an evening out, it is of course immediately apparent to me in whose company he has been. With the women it is a dinner engagement or a trip to the theatre, generally with the unmarried sister of a colleague or the daughter of a regular patient. I rarely detect the same perfume twice. With the men, on the other hand, it is a different story. There have only been three of them: a drunken fumble at a Medical Society function in 1884, a man Watson saw at irregular intervals over the winter of 1885, who smoked Player's Navy Cut and wore a moustache, and finally an affair which lasted for three months, early last year. It seemed to me the man was a soldier who had eventually been sent abroad. Watson had been extremely intimate with him: as intimate, indeed, as two men can be. He would be shocked to know I had deduced such details about him. I cannot unsee what I have seen, however -- what, indeed, the voyeuristic part of me wants to see. My imagination is vivid and my brain a law unto itself.

Watson's social calendar, therefore, was well filled, though that never seemed to prevent him being available for one of my cases at a moment's notice. He even occasionally managed to persuade me to come out with him in turn. Just before I left for the Continent, for instance, he had coaxed me to a ball in aid of a charity favoured by one of his richer patients. It was the first time in many years I had attended such an event outwith my work.

I enjoyed the evening more for the opportunity to watch Watson shine than anything else. He danced with many women that evening, but it was me with whom he came home at the end of the night. 

It was after midnight when we finally returned to Baker Street. Watson hung up his hat and coat, and turned to the stairs that led to his room.

"A nightcap?" I suggested, reluctant to lose his company so soon.

His face was flushed with drink and the exertion of climbing the stairs. In the light of the gas lamp he looked rather splendid.

My words made his mouth twitch in a self-deprecating smile. 

"As a medical man, I should rather be recommending water and dry bread," he said, but he took the proffered glass of brandy all the same.

We settled into our seats by the unlit fire.

"I was sorry to see you did not dance, Holmes."

I waved a dismissive hand. "You know how I feel about the company of women."

I knew he would interpret that just as I had meant it. I have long known I could trust Watson: he knew my inclinations as I knew his. We had never discussed the matter openly, and at that point I doubted we ever would.

He looked up at me now, his face thoughtful over the rim of his glass, but all he said was, "There were many charming and intelligent women there tonight, Holmes. I'm quite sure you could have found an entertaining dancing companion."

"I doubt whether a single one of them could compete with your sparkling wit," I said, in the voice I always chose carefully so as to leave him unsure whether he was being insulted or complimented. In any case, there was never any danger of him recognising my words as the declarations of affection they in fact were.

He hmm'ed in his throat, and gave me that particular smile of his, the smile I sometimes suspected of being his own equivalent of my carefully chosen tone of voice: the smile I never knew whether to interpret as patient forbearing or ill-hidden affection.

I decided that a change in the topic of conversation was called for.

"I know I can count on you to conserve all copies of the _Times_ while I'm away."

"And the _Telegraph_ , and every other daily. My dear fellow, there's no need to even remind me."

"And if there are any new developments on the Bellingham case -- "

"-- I shall telegraph you immediately."

I raised my glass to him. "Good old Watson. Whatever should I do without you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you could replace me without too much fuss," he said easily.

"You underestimate yourself, my dear. Or perhaps you underestimate my indolence."

It seemed that this time the warmth of my feelings was not sufficiently disguised, because the smile he gave me was simple and unambiguous, and full of delight.

I turned to look into the unlit fire. It was at moments such as this that I wondered if Watson might possibly feel something for me after all, something other than the easy friendship he bestowed on so many people. The rest of the time I knew I was delusional.

Watson drained his glass and stood. 

"You should turn in, Holmes. You have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow."

The following afternoon I left for the Continent.

Saint-Malo harbour was quiet when I arrived, the working day almost over. The smell of fish and sun-dried seaweed wafted up to meet me as I left the boat. The walled city loomed over us in the evening light.

Le Villard had taken a week's holiday, and returned to spend it with me in his native Brittany. He was waiting to meet me at the end of the quay.

"Paris is dull at the moment, my dear Holmes," he said, as he took my suitcase and stowed it in the carriage. "Our criminals don't aspire to the dizzying heights of your London breed."

"They're not as ingenious or inventive as all that in London, in reality," I said. "What you need is a biographer, to transform your dullest cases into thrilling fiction."

That made him turn to stare at me, for some reason. After a moment, he said, "I am quite sure I could never find such a companion as your Dr Watson."

Something about his tone of voice made me vaguely uneasy. When he next spoke, however, it was only to say that he had made a start on a translation of my latest publication on the criminal uses of sealing wax.

Le Villard is a short man, with sharp eyes that see everything and a high domed forehead such as would drive a phrenologist to ecstasy. He has an over-exuberant turn of phrase when he writes. Fortunately when he speaks he is somewhat more restrained, or he would have driven me to insanity years ago.

The days that followed were filled with blue seas and cloudy skies. We spent the mornings out of doors, the afternoons in Le Villard's library and the evenings in his bed. He was as accomplished a man in that field as in his work. He had other lovers in Paris, I knew, though I believe none of them were a constant presence in his life.

In the evenings Le Villard would read aloud from the latest draft for his current translation of one of my monographs and I would sit in bed, listening to the language of my childhood holidays modulated by the heavy vowels and gravelly R's of the Breton.

Le Villard rarely spoke to me about anything personal, but instead poured his talkative nature into accounts of his latest cases, Parisian scandals, or other anecdotes he thought might amuse me. I had nevertheless come to know him quite well through simple observation over the years, and I could tell that something was bothering him. I made no attempt to press him for details; our relationship was not of that nature. About halfway through the week, however, he brought up the subject of his own accord.

We were sitting in the garden of his cottage, perched on a cliff high above the sea. Le Villard had been asking me about some detail of my latest monograph. He had pages of translation spread out on the garden table around him, and was scribbling away in the green notebook he favoured -- Watson's was a dark blue. I was smoking, and listening to the waves crashing against the rocks far below us.

Suddenly Le Villard said, without looking up, "I feel like I must make as much use of you as possible while I have you here." He blotted a page, and turned it over. "You may take that in every sense of the words you like." 

I blew smoke into the air, and raised an eyebrow at him.

He had raised his head, and was looking at me calmly. "I didn't expect to see you this summer, in fact. From day to day, I waited for the letter that would tell me you had been unable to drag yourself away from the good Dr Watson."

This was close enough to what I wished was the truth to sting. 

"I beg you, my dear man," I said. "Don't be tiresome."

He shrugged, and began to gather his work together into one neat pile. 

"I simply find it most peculiar that two men can spend half a decade living in the same rooms, and desperately in love with one another, and yet -- bof!" He let air escape through his lips in an expression of derision. "That is all that happens between them."

I was so startled that a contemptuous laugh burst out of me.

"Come now, Holmes. You have often praised my perspicacity. Do you really think such a detail could escape me, particularly in the life of a man whom I have spent half a decade studying and admiring?"

When Le Villard let his feelings show like that, I generally ignored him. He said such things not to flatter, but because they were true. He did not expect me to respond in kind. He knew I respected his professionalism, at least, and never seemed to ask anything more of me. Usually, however, we were not discussing my supposed sentiments for another man. My feeling of unease made me snap at him.

"You know nothing of Dr Watson, nor of any opinions I might hold about him."

"I know quite a lot about you," he said without presumption. "As for Dr Watson: I am quite as avid a follower of his published works as of yours."

A ladybird was scuttling along the table. I watched it follow the edge of a sheet of paper, and wondered how I could most quickly put an end to this conversation.

"I fail to see how such romantic drivel could possibly interest you."

"It's good for my English."

"That can take all the help it can get," I said cruelly, hoping thus to distract him from the conversation's original subject.

Le Villard ignored this. "And it's unkind of you to talk so of his works when he's not here to defend them."

"Oh, Watson knows all about my opinion of his work," I said darkly.

It was peculiar and unsettling to be discussing Watson with Le Villard. We had never done so before. What's more, I had spoken of Le Villard to Watson only once: that conversation he had later immortalised in twisted fashion in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. 

"He knows about our liaison, does he not?" Le Villard was sitting with his head on one side, smiling peaceably. "I greatly enjoyed reading about myself in print, though I did think your good doctor exaggerated rather a lot. All his more perspicacious readers now know I am quite infatuated with you."

I felt like the conversation was escaping from my control, something I am not at all accustomed to. I wondered whether Le Villard was trying to provoke something from me. He knew perfectly well I was not the slightest bit infatuated with him. He had seemed to have accepted the fact. On my side, it is difficult to say whether I thought I was being cruel or kind to him. I am ashamed to say that most of the time I gave little thought to the matter, though more than he probably supposed I did. I believe he thought me completely heartless. I do not enjoy dwelling on my own defaults, and I let my irritation show in my voice.

"If you're concerned that some reader might draw the conclusion that our intercourse is anything other than intellectual, I assure you, the average man is quite incapable of such a leap of the imagination."

Le Villard dismissed that with a wave of his hand. He evidently had no such concerns. "You're deflecting my attention, my dear Holmes. I didn't raise the matter in order to discuss the intelligence of the British reading public, but in order to prove my point about Dr Watson's sentiments."

"I never read his works," I said shortly, "so I have no idea what you're talking about."

It was a lie, of course. I had curled up on the sofa in Baker Street with Beeton's Christmas annual in 1885, bought several copies of Lippincott's to replace those I had worn out, and poured over the Strand magazine when Watson began to publish there too.

Le Villard didn't push the matter. He closed his notebook and suggested dinner.

That evening I sat alone in my room, a copy of the Strand magazine lying unopened in my lap. At Waterloo station I had caught sight of my name on the cover, illustrated by the portrait of a grim-looking, handsome fellow who bore me only a superficial resemblance. I had sought out sixpence and bought it.

I had poured over Watson's other stories, analysing and dissecting them. Sometimes I had almost dared come to the same conclusion as Le Villard; other times I knew that the exercise was in vain. What Watson wrote and published reflected neither his true character nor his true sentiments, whatever Le Villard might think. It was a carefully constructed persona, a narrative device, a dramatic foil to this other bizarre creation, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

I had spent years living in close proximity to Watson and studying the man, his habits, his behaviour and his words. Slowly and painstakingly, I had carved away layers of armour: the layer of affability, the layer of civility, the layer of unassuming stolidity. Finally I had reached the core, which was keen and shrewd, and really rather beautiful.

I felt like I finally knew who the man was -- but still not what he wanted, nor what he felt.

On my final night in Brittany, we sat in Le Villard's sitting room, talking over an after-dinner smoke.

My thoughts were elsewhere, but I believed I was keeping up my end of the conversation sufficiently well to fool Le Villard. He soon disabused me of that notion.

"Your thoughts turn already to London, I think."

I had, indeed, been thinking of Watson, with an almost painful sensation of anticipation. It was foolish of me. Somehow I felt that our reunion on the morrow would be different from all the others. It was an idea that was completely groundless, of course. Nothing at all had changed between us in the week I had been away. I cursed Le Villard for putting ideas into my head.

"I wish you would stop attributing to me sentiments I have never felt," I said sharply. "There is nothing more pitiful than a man who pines after someone who doesn't reciprocate the feeling."

"Oh, I quite agree," said Le Villard.

It was only then, I am ashamed to say, that I realised just what I had said. 

After a pause, Le Villard said dryly, "I wonder whether I am not in fact being rather cruel to Dr Watson in encouraging you in this matter. Perhaps I should do better to warn him away from you." 

I looked down into my pipe, swallowing the sardonic retort that rose to my lips.

Le Villard made a noise of impatience. 

"I see you persist in maintaining that this is all in my head."

I forgot the guilt provoked by my cruel words to him, and snapped at him.

"Good Lord, man! Have you learnt nothing in all the years you have known me? Have I taught you nothing? This theory of Dr Watson's supposed sentiments for me -- what is it based on? The written testimony of one unreliable witness!"

To my surprise, that made him laugh.

"And your theory that he feels nothing for you -- what is that based on? Conclusions drawn by one subjective observer."

That brought me up short.

He laid aside his pipe and got to his feet. He stood looking at me for a moment, a sad smile on his lips.

"Good night, Holmes. See you in the morning."

Le Villard drove me back to the port of Saint-Malo the next morning. He took his leave of me in a manner that suggested he was not expecting to see me again.

"I shall send you a copy of that translation," he said. "I hope to publish it shortly in _Annales du monde criminel_."

"I look forward to it."

I shook his hand, and encouraged him to consult me without hesitation should the need arise.

Now I sat on the train back to London, more thoughtful than when I had set out a week before. Before I knew it, the train was pulling into Waterloo station.

I stepped out onto the platform, Watson still foremost in my mind. Then the crowd parted and there he was. 

He was standing in the shadow of a bookstall, eagerly scanning the crowd. He caught my eye, and a warm smile spread over his face.

"Good evening, Holmes," he said as he shook my hand. "I trust you had a comfortable crossing?"

"I wasn't expecting you," I said, momentarily made clumsy by an idea that was forming in my head. 

That made him smile again. 

"Really, Holmes, sometimes I despair of you. Why, don't I always come to meet you?"

I came to a sudden decision. Suppose I were to form the hypothesis that Watson might indeed be favourable to an overture of something more than friendship. The next step would be to test the theory through experiment.

"Watson," I said impulsively. "My dear Watson, I -- "

I recalled to mind our surroundings and came to a stop.

"I beg your pardon?"

I put off what I had been planning to say for later, and instead held up the magazine I still held.

"I see you have a new story in the Strand."

I was quite taken aback by the way his face lit up. 

"You read it?"

"I intend to."

He smiled at that, and turned to look for a cab. 

I spent the journey back to Baker Street suffering agonies of impatience. Once in the sitting room, I put my plan into action before he could even take off his coat.

"I have made a prediction," I announced, "which I should like to test. I will need your help in the matter."

"Of course."

"I shall be observing your reactions under a particular set of conditions."

He nodded, looking serious.

"Don't move, please," I said, and stepped up to him. My heart was beating in a manner not at all befitting a dispassionate investigator.

I took a deep breath, and leant forward. Even before our lips met, I could see his mouth curving into a smile.

.. .. ..

Fin

.. .. ..


End file.
